Shinigami Jones, the Hunter!
by Phantazm
Summary: On his way to Earth after that Red Dwarf business, Ten finds himself on a small planet with a big secret and an even bigger pain in his side. It's hard enough challenging his arch-enemies without his "ally's" help.
1. Shinigami Jones, Hunter!

_Shinigami Jones: Hunter_

The TARDIS, with yet another of its human-seeming quirks, had chosen to drop the Doctor off not on Earth as he'd asked, but on some outlying border world somewhere near the Sontaran Rim. Fortunately it was not close enough to Rutan space that it was a contested world, thank Time for that. It was simply on their frontier, unexplored as yet. A small favor, but the Doctor was not in the mood for small favors: he wanted an explanation.

"All right, old girl, why the side trip?" he mumbled almost to himself. The TARDIS didn't answer, of course, but that didn't mean it couldn't hear him. It didn't mean it would answer him, either, so once again the Doctor was forced to puzzle things out on his own.

It was entirely possible that the TARDIS was simply tired after jumping between so many dimensions, what with that "Darth Vader" character and those "Klingons" all coming on top of the other so quickly, and now a hop to a time about one and a half million years in the past relative to where and when he'd reentered his own space. The Doctor knew he certainly was tired, and as the Earth of the 21st Century had happened so long ago—relatively speaking—he may as well dawdle a bit and recharge himself before getting on his way. Then again, the TARDIS had sometimes shown a penchant for dropping the Doctor where he was needed the most, but who could possibly need the Doctor's services on this backwater planet?

"Just once let me go without finding out," he grumbled, heading outside.

-oOo-

The tall, slender man in the drover coat pushed his wide-brimmed hat higher on his head to better view the valley before him. His instruments had indicated the presence of his quarry on this planet and his ship had set him down undetected. His deep brown eyes scanned the scene: smoke rising from primitive factories, simple roads traveled by self-propelled vehicles, housing and other tracts, all of which were highly incongruous compared to the rest of the planet. This little valley, filled with such technology, was an anomaly, especially since the world at large was quite pre-industrial.

_Proof__positive__that__they__'__re__involved_, the man thought, his lips thinning in anger. The sun highlighted his swarthy skin as he slung a large rifle over his shoulder. If there were targets to be had, and he knew there were, they would be dead within a very, very short time.

-oOo-

The Doctor, while momentarily annoyed at not having made it to his destination, was becoming more and more pacified by the planet's highly accommodating atmosphere. It was a beautifully sunny day, mild with a light breeze, and just the faintest hint of rain on one gust of air and the scent of cherry blossoms on the other. Of course, they weren't cherry blossoms, obviously, but a native version thereof. They certainly smelled wonderful, though, whatever the source. It was hard to be angry at things when for just this one moment, all seemed right.

And there were human-seeming inhabitants, too, the Doctor noted with a smile. Two of them were bringing a horse-drawn cart his way. They were clad in brown cloaks with the hoods up, walking with their eyes downcast. They walked as if they were hunchbacks, but the Doctor offered a cheerful greeting and a wave of his hand regardless. Both gestures were wasted as the two people averted their gazes even more and shuffled around him.

Odd, perhaps, but not unheard of. Perhaps the Doctor had discovered a sect of monks—_wouldn__'__t__that__be__perfect__if__I__'__d__stumbled__onto__an__enclave__devoted__to__the__Meddling__Monk!_—and he had invited them to break a taboo or something. Curious, and if there was one thing the Doctor was, it was curious. He withdrew his sonic screwdriver and aimed it at the cart, scanning its contents. What was inside would be a clue as to where it was going or coming from.

_Aha! Raw materials. Biological, too. Plant fibers for clothing or maybe foodstuffs. So they're on their way to a processing plant of some kind, thus indicating more people to meet; thus, I follow them! Allons me!_

There was a large tree just a ways off the road. Nestled securely in the higher branches, he saw the road winding and turning toward some rising smoke in the very great distance. It was too far to walk, but fortunately, the Sneaker Express was not his only option.

He made his way back to the TARDIS, made a very small adjustment in spatial coordinates, and stepped out into a small, secluded alley. There were more of the brown-garbed figures about, all of them walking as if they were hunchbacked, but there were many others clad in less austere clothing. There were a lot of pregnant women about, too.

Looking about in every available direction, the Doctor found himself with a lot of very tantalizing choices. Bazaars, shops, restaurants, but all somewhat in contrast to their contents. The structures and general mien of the city placed it as being Earthlike, approximate to the time of the Arab oil embargo of the late 20th Century—even internal-combustion vehicles!—but the wares for sale were simple loaves of bread, rough clothing, and so forth, as the Doctor had seen in medieval Europe. He shrugged it off. Development proceeded at different places on different continents, to say nothing of different worlds. But it was a world he had not seen before, so he walked on, absorbing everything he saw.

He saw some of the locals making purchases and took note of the currency they used. It looked much like some he had left over in his pockets from…from…oh, from quite some time ago and he didn't care to imagine how long. He dug around and pulled out enough to buy a little bread and something to drink, some coffee-like brew that smelled somewhat like bleu cheese. Old bleu cheese. That had started to turn gray. And very, very fuzzy.

"Good day, ma'am, how are you?" he said cheerily.

"I am well, sir, and you?"

"Very good, thank you. Oh, this is delicious," he said around a mouthful of bread. "Do you make it yourself?"

"Yes, sir. Our entire family makes what we sell." The woman at the stall was perhaps thirty or so, still quite pretty but with the hands of a hard worker.

"And what is this stuff? Smells…very good."

The woman frowned and tilted her head. "It is _komsuush_, obviously. How can you not know of it?"

"Oh, I'm a visitor from…oh, from way out there. Days of walking. We don't have this back home."

"Ah," the woman nodded. "Please, try it and tell me what you think."

Reminding himself that he had put worse things into his system than cheese-smelling alien coffee, the Doctor took a sip and was surprised that it tasted like mint. "Oh, now that's interesting," he said, taking a bigger sip.

The woman smiled. "Many people cannot get past the smell. It reminds them of _t__'__nu-pringge_, but perhaps I should not speak of that while you are trying to eat, hm?"

"Well, it's worth getting over the smell, that's for certain," the Doctor said, smiling. "What's this town called?"

"Home."

"Appropriate." It was a universal constant, the Doctor remembered. Whatever the planet, it was called something simple, like "earth," "dirt," "mother provider," or something, and its inhabitants invariably referred to themselves as "the people" or some similar appellation. A little imagination would be nice, though, but things were the way they were.

A car rumbled past them as the Doctor thought of what next to say to break the ice. "Say, what's with those folks in the brown robes? Are they priests or something? Holy men?"

"Oh, no, sir. They are the Deemed. It is best to leave them alone."

_The__fly__in__my__soup__has__landed._ "Secret police?"

"Of a sort, but it is best not to even speak of them. Please, finish your meal and go. I should not have said even so much." And she refused to say another word.

The Doctor nodded in understanding. "Thank you."

_So these 'Deemed' are untouchable, whether by law or by caste, eh? So much for the vacation. Not that there's anything untoward going on here, but besides that coffee, something doesn't smell right._

Evidently, the Deemed were something special and special things required the presence of special places, therefore…perhaps that building would do? The Doctor eyed it critically. It wasn't quite a monastery, nor was it quite a police station. Still, it wasn't a school or a boarding house. In equal measure it was not a factory or mill.

"Well, I could rattle off a universe's worth of things that it's not, but it would be faster and a lot more informational if I actually went up to it to find out what it was. Besides, I look kind of silly standing in the middle of the street, don't I?" he asked of a curious passerby, who nodded obligingly, if not understandingly.

Meandering as harmlessly as he possibly could, the Doctor made his way toward the building. Four stories tall and quite impressively wide—with an equally great deal of depth to it—it could have been any one of a number of things, but the Doctor had already decided he was not going to go that route, so he continued walking. But trying to figure out what it was…it was a puzzle the Doctor was yearning to unravel, and that yearning grew worse and worse with every step.

-oOo-

Having stored his rifle in a safe location—and having attached a phase-resonant cloaking pod to it—the slender man gazed about the small city. Much of the signal his scanner was picking up seemed to be underground, and although the signal was of moderate size there seemed to be a fairly dense concentration of tech that was centuries beyond this world's natural order.

"Odd. I don't pick up any excavation equipment or anything motorized bigger than those cars. Very intriguing." That meant that, as he'd come to expect, everything had been built on the backs of slaves.

There was certainly nothing above ground level except those few buildings, which most likely might house nothing but lifts or electric lights. Those were the symptoms, however, not the disease. And with air and ground ruled out, the only obvious source of his readings had to be underground. But how to gain access? Possibly via…_hello_.

A thin man, garbed in clothing that was most certainly not of this city or world, was making a beeline toward a large building a block or so away. Oh, the stranger was trying to seem nonchalant, but his attention was obviously focused completely on the building.

_I__wouldn__'__t__put__it__past__him__to__be__an__overseer__or__something._ The slender man adjusted his hat and likewise made for the building, keeping his distance behind the Doctor and watching for signs that he, in turn, had been spotted.

-oOo-

The Doctor climbed the steps to the building's main entrance. There were Deemed all over the place, most of them barely sparing the Doctor a glance as they passed, most likely to avoid bumping into him. Fortunately for the Doctor, there were also regular citizens in the building so he wouldn't stand out too much. It struck him that all the Deemed seemed to be hunchbacks. Not a single one of them was missing that odd hump on their shoulders.

The Doctor recalled that in some societies, people who manifested birth defects like extra limbs, digits, or whatever else were considered deities or at least avatars of some god or other. Perhaps the Deemed were simply a caste of…but would that engender fear to such an extent? _That__would__depend__on__the__god,__most__likely_, the Doctor mused_._ The vendor on the street wasn't the only one who seemed averse to the Deemed, now that he thought on it. Even in close proximity to one another, citizens and Deemed still kept their distances as much as possible.

Most of the humans were restricted to the enormous entry chamber, which was lined with countertops and what seemed to be bank teller windows. Of course, this was no bank, but those humans who were behind the counters were obviously in control of some kind of transactions: papers were handed to them by the townsfolk as Deemed patrolled the chamber. Some humans took submitted papers back into the depths of the buildings while other papers were returned to the bearers.

_Another__universal__constant.__The__bureaucracy._ As with all bureaucracies, however, came another constant: the way to foul it up. All such entities were based on paperwork. The constant flow of processed wood pulp and systematic applications of ink and seals ensured the survival and growth of the ever-expanding organism. And all it took was the wrong piece of paper at the wrong time to bring it all down.

"Or perhaps the right piece in the right place and at a time of my choosing," the Doctor mumbled, tapping a small wallet in his hand. Psychic or not, it was still paper, and as such it was a key to this vast vault of information.

Choosing a line at random, the Doctor stood calmly, looking at everyone and listening to everything. He remained unaware that he, himself, was under scrutiny.

His hat stashed under his voluminous drover coat, the slim man observed the Doctor as he chatted with a man at one of the stations behind the long counter. He was too far away to hear what was said, and he tried to keep himself as much behind the doorjamb as possible to avoid being seen, thus hindering his own vision somewhat. He saw enough to witness the Doctor being questioned briefly before being escorted into another chamber, though.

He couldn't see what the Doctor had been waving about, but by "accidentally" bumping into another man, the slim one managed to pick up some of the documents that were dropped.

Blinking rapidly and squinting, he quickly scanned the pages before handing them back with an apology and a smile. He withdrew from the door and turned his face toward the sun, shielding his eyes with a hand.

There was nothing there for him to see, but such an action was necessary for his cover. Superimposed upon the cityscape, the whirls and angles of the alien script he had seen rearranged themselves into words and figures he could read. _Really__shouldn__'__t__be__all__that__surprised,__should__I?_ he wondered as he read. The documents he'd seen had reported quantities and types of supplies delivered to the town—to this very building—and among the "supplies" listed were humans. Laborers, like as not, but whatever their purpose here, it was soon to come to an end.

"Mrs. Jones didn't raise any cowards," he smiled mirthlessly.

-oOo-

Making his way deeper and deeper into the headquarters of the Deemed, the Doctor found himself marveling more and more at the disparity between the technology inside the building and that outside. His guide brought him only to the next level down from the ground floor before making it obvious that this was as far as anyone went. A superior would be along shortly and the Doctor was obviously supposed to wait for him.

"Well, then, I suppose I'll have to tether my curiosity until then, hm? Thanks so much for your help."

But he was already alone.

Standing in a narrow corridor, the Doctor could see a lift door at the far end but no other means of ingress. Evidently his contact would appear…ah. _From__the__lift,__as__hypothesized,_ the Doctor thought happily. _Not__that__there__'__s__anything__to__be__proud__of,__really.__It__was__the__only__other__way__in._

The door slid open with a faint hiss and a robed figure, one of the Deemed with his or her face obscured by a hood, strode solemnly toward the Doctor. There was a medallion of some sort, obviously a badge of rank, hanging from his neck. The lights of the corridor sparkled off its many facets but the Doctor could recognize nothing about the design; it seemed a random hodgepodge of angles, curves, and semiprecious gemstones. Well, not random as such, but…it looked familiar, like a model of something he had seen before.

When the Deemed stood but a few paces from the Doctor, he lowered his hood enough to reveal the face of a middle-aged man who had just begun to put on a little weight under his weathered skin. He was balding, with gray streaks coloring most of his remaining hair. He was clean-shaven with clear gray eyes, which were focused most intensely on the Doctor.

"You are not one of our assigned supervisors," the man stated flatly.

"No, I'm not," the Doctor answered. "I'm a traveler and happened to be passing through."

"With some kind of forged document that indicated you were involved in genetic replication and modification."

_Did__I?_ "Well, I can't be sure what the paper said," the Doctor said with a slight smile. Technically, it was the truth. He knew a general sense of what the psychic paper would show: if he needed to show identification, it would show the viewer what he thought would be the proper form. In this case, evidently the Doctor had presented it as a manifest and the details had been filled in by the clerk's experiences and memories.

"Of course not." The man had chosen not to dwell on how the Doctor had gotten in. That he had gained entrance was enough. Time now to discover _why_ he had come. "Your purpose here is merely sightseeing? I find that most improbable."

"Not so much so when you think of how improbable everything else is," the Doctor returned. "I mean, nowhere else on this planet do you have electricity, cars, or even buildings of this size."

The man's eyes narrowed. "And I assume you have seen this entire planet?"

"You'd be amazed at what I've seen in my travels," the Doctor said. Not that it answered the question posed to him, but now the Doctor was on his guard as well. The technological disparity between the city called "Home" and the rest of the planet was far too great, far too suspicious. "But this is the first time I've seen you. I'm the Doctor. Who are you?"

"I am First Director Nassim," the man said. "I believe this conversation is concluded, Doctor. As you are, in your words, a simple traveler, I suggest you continue to travel. Do not let your path lead through our city again."

Nassim said no more, letting his words hang in the still air of the corridor until the Doctor decided to leave. When the Time Lord had disappeared behind several curves, Nassim opened a panel in the wall and removed a telephone-like device. "Master, I do not know what to think of this stranger. His papers indicate a knowledge of our plans and movement of materiel, but he himself betrays not a whit of any awareness whatsoever."

His brow furrowed as he listened. "As you say, Master. Some of the Deemed shall keep watch over him and relay all that they know. As you command." He replaced the telephone and raised his hood to cover his face again. There was still business to oversee; this Doctor was merely another small bit of it.

-oOo-

Outside the building, Jones watched the Doctor step into the sunlight. Something about the Doctor's bearing showed him to be deep in thought. He seemed more pensive, somehow more intense. Jones fell in some distance behind the Doctor, wondering just what an overseer of the Doctor's stature had to worry about.

The Doctor rounded a corner nearly half a block ahead of Jones, who had to hurry somewhat to avoid losing his quarry. Jones had reasoned that since this unknown man was walking by himself—all the Deemed walked in at least pairs—that he was either of a special status or had been dispatched on a mission of some importance. The latter was less likely but equally suitable, since it meant that the slender man would likely have even more information to "share."

Jones slid his hands into the pockets of his drover coat, palming a small electric stunner. It would deliver enough of a jolt to send his target to the ground and disable him long enough to apply handcuffs or leg restraints, and then it was questioning time.

He came around the corner and stopped abruptly. The Doctor's dark eyes were inches from his own. "You don't belong here any more than I do, do you?"

"Since you already know the answer, no point in replying, is there?" Jones said sardonically.

"What are you doing here?"

"Asking you the same thing," Jones replied. "What were you doing in there?"

"Asking questions."

"Looking to your masters for new assignments?"

The Doctor frowned. "What masters? What do you know about this place?"

"Not much, but you need to start answering me when I ask you something." Jones withdrew his stunner and triggered it. A brilliant blue-white arc crackled across its contacts.

"I'd say you need to modify your tone of voice, approach, questioning skills, and your little toy's circuitry," the Doctor offered. A strange little warbling whine sounded and the stunner's arcing stopped. "Never mind. Took care of that last one for you. You're welcome."

Looking down, Jones saw a small probe with a bright blue tip hovering near his stunner. "Sonic projector," he snorted. "Should have seen that coming."

"Screwdriver, and yes, you should have. Now that we're back to square one, why are _you_ here?"

"I'm a hunter," Jones said, with a touch of arrogance that did not suit the Doctor at all. "And since you're in league with my targets, that makes you a target, as well."

The Doctor shook his head slowly. "I would strongly advise against anything that makes me your 'target' or your enemy. Your career would be severely shortened."

"You like to talk a lot, don't you?"

Now the Doctor peered intently at Jones. "Not so much as you do, I would think. You're trying to intimidate me, or somehow impress me with something or other, aren't you? You honestly think I'm working with whoever set this up and rather than roughing me up, you want to try to face me down first."

Jones blinked. "Um, well, not really."

The Doctor just stared at him.

"No, I'm not trying to intimidate you. I'm simply stating facts, and the facts are that you're going to end up on the losing end of any fight that breaks out."

"You _are_ trying to scare me," the Doctor said, a smile of incredible amusement spreading across his face. "What are you hunting, exactly, that warrants such transparent and childish tactics?"

Jones withdrew his hat from beneath his coat and adjusted it so that the Doctor could just barely see Jones' eyes beneath the brim. "Now we're back to that again. You claim you're not allied with the Iron Plague?"

"The what? And raise your hat. You're not impressing me by glaring so manfully at me from under the brim."

Rather than raising his hat, Jones raised his head slightly as he narrowed his eyes. "You expect me to believe you've never heard of the Iron Plague?"

"I'm losing patience with you, sir," the Doctor said. "Look at me like another person and quit trying to use body language and cheap theatrics to impress me."

"I'm not trying to impress you," Jones said. "I'm asking you a question."

The Doctor turned to walk away. "So quit trying to make your voice all gravelly and manly while you do. Excuse me. I have business to deal with."

"Not so fast," Jones snapped, grabbing the Doctor's arm. "Who are you?"

With a sharp yank, the Doctor freed his arm. "I'm the Doctor. Happy?"

"Doctor? Of what?"

_They__always__ask__that.__I__need__business__cards.__Psychic__business__cards,__now__that__'__s__an__idea!_ "None of your business. And no grabbing the Doctor. What are you here for?"

"Answers, first and foremost."

"Stop being so bloody cryptic! I have enough patience to make Job look like he had ADHD, but you, sir, are rapidly reaching the end of it. What brings you here that you want questions so badly that you feel it necessary to intimidate and assault me?"

"The Plague brings me," Jones answered. "They attacked my homeworld about twelve years ago, left almost nothing standing. For some reason, though, they stopped short of occupation and just withdrew. It was almost like, I don't know, like they had to pull back to defend themselves against something else, or maybe they just decided butchering my people wasn't any fun any more."

"So the 'Iron Plague' is both a 'they' and an 'it,' I see. Tell me about them."

Jones rearranged his hat for comfort rather than for dramatic effect. "We didn't see them at first. Only their ships. But that was enough, I guess…"

Neither of them saw two of the Deemed watching from the farther end of the alley, nor did either of them hear one of the watchers begin speaking softly into a microphone in his cowl.

"…they seemed to be interested in large-scale sterilization, I guess you'd call it. Orbital assaults using nuclear weapons no smaller than thirty gigatons, then biochemical weapons dispersed into the upper atmosphere. They followed up with fighter-bombers of a type I've never seen before or since, sprayed chemicals all over our farmlands and water supplies."

The Doctor had segued from irritation to fascination. With the tactics and ruthlessness that this stranger described, he could have been speaking of any one of ten thousand species. Sontarans were a possibility, given their position near Sontaran territory, but equally likely were the Kalathraxans, the Imudi, or any of the other nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven species the Doctor was thinking about.

The Doctor's train of thought was derailed by the superheated stream of plasma that chewed a smoking gouge in the wall behind him. His skin felt nearly blistered by the backwash of the powerful beam and his ears rang with the scream of the particles past his head, but his feet managed to take control from the rest of his body and start running. _Faithful,__clever__feet!__Where__would__I__be__without__you?_

He saw his newest acquaintance duck and lunge for an apparently empty section of wall and come up with a very large rifle. The stranger turned and fired his weapon at the two hunchbacked Deemed who were firing at them. "What are you doing?" he screamed, aghast.

"Saving our lives," the other man retorted. "Keep moving! You stand still, you're a target!" Two quick shots from his rifle burned down the alley, striking one of the Deemed and sending him to the ground in flames.

The Doctor shook his head and continued running toward the TARDIS. He chided himself for not seeing this coming in its own turn. The man had called himself a hunter, and generally you don't go hunting without weapons. It also usually followed that weapons would be discharged and someone would be hurt or killed.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the TARDIS key, hesitating for just the briefest of instants before deciding to let the stranger inside. He would never have let an armed stranger into the TARDIS, but given that the man was carrying an energy weapon, the TARDIS' internal defenses could neutralize it easily enough. Energy-damping fields, harmonics, or even a localized spatial-temporal displacement rift would disarm the newcomer if he turned out to be uncontrollable.

_For__all__that__he__'__s__some__psychotic__drama__king,__he__still__doesn__'__t__deserve__to__die._ "Inside, quick!"

Jones ducked inside the TARDIS and the Doctor slammed and secured the door behind him, quickly leaping to the console and engaging the engines for a quick spatial hop outside the city. The Doctor thought he heard a few shots from the pursuers' plasma weapons impact the TARDIS' shields, but in an instant the Doctor and his unwelcome passenger were safely away.

The TARDIS hummed and groaned softly, its engines "idling" in the timeless space between spaces, and the Doctor turned to face Jones. "Now. Without the theatrics, without the gun, who are you?"

To the Doctor's surprise, Jones slung his rifle rather than try to brandish it. "My name is Shinigami Jones. I'm a professional bounty hunter. Actually, this job isn't so much a professional one as a personal one. Like I said, I'm hunting the Iron Plague, and they're on this planet."

"Did you say 'Shinigami'?" the Doctor asked, frowning.

"I did."

"Do you know what a shinigami is? It's an old Japanese concept, an interpretation of the Western 'angel of death' that Europeans brought with them when they first contacted Japan."

"Exactly. And as far as the Plague is concerned, that's what I am."

"A Japanese iteration of a European concept? That's a bit awkward and malapropos, isn't it? I doubt the 'Iron Plague' are up on Earth history."

Jones frowned in return. "No. I'm a vision of their death. I've been at this for twelve years or so, subjective, and sadly, I've lost track of how many of them I've killed."

"So how is that 'sad,' exactly?"

"I don't know how many more of them there are," Jones replied, as if the answer should have been obvious. "I won't know when my job is done."

The Doctor was silent. "So you took the name 'Shinigami' as a sort of stage name. Catchy. I bet your real name is Frances."

"No, it's not."

"Clarence."

"No."

"Marvin?"

"No!"

"Alphonse!"

Jones was silent, gnawing on the inside of his lip. "Marion. Can we move on now?"

"Of course," the Doctor said obligingly. "There's so much more to discuss, such as in how wrong you are to try to hunt down this Plague of yours."

"What makes you think so?" Jones snapped.

"You're killing for revenge," the Doctor said. "You won't bring back your friends or family or anyone else on your planet who's died."

"I know, but at least I have a chance of preventing other planets from dying. They've slaughtered entire worlds, from what I've heard. I've been traveling from one system to another and the stories are always the same," Jones said. "Entire races enslaved, or if they resist, wiped right out of the history books. My world is one of them. How would you feel if your planet and everything and everyone you knew was blown into infinity, huh?"

"I _felt_more loss than you'll ever know," the Doctor said flatly. "My world was lost, much like yours. In fact, I'm the last of my kind. Are you?"

"No," Jones replied. "There are maybe a hundred thousand of us left. Some of us were off-planet. That's the only reason we survived."

"At least your race still has a chance," the Doctor said. "Shouldn't you be directing your efforts toward improving their chances?"

"That's what I'm doing," Jones said. "What if the Plague returns and tries to finish the job? An entire planet and all its defenses stood no chance at all. How much easier will it be to kill a few thousand people with no defenses? I'm my people's last, best hope for survival!"

The Doctor came around the TARDIS' center console with just two long strides. "It's always so easy for your kind to justify murder, isn't it? You're doing it to protect yourselves, you're doing it to save others. What you fail, what you utterly and completely _fail_ to see is that you are committing murder! You are destroying sentient beings, removing them from the universe forever, never to be seen again! You engage in genocide and mask it with the veneer of altruism, but you're still slaughtering unique and irreplaceable life forms! You're no better than the Daleks!"

Now Jones reacted. He put his face millimeters from the Doctor's nose, bellowing in unbridled rage. "_Don__'__t__you__dare__compare__me__to__them!__They__'__re__the__reason__I__'__m__here!__They__'__re__the__ones__who__murdered__my__world!_"

The Doctor was taken aback. "What?"

"The Daleks, what my people call the Iron Plague. They're why I'm here. They're on this planet. And I'm going to kill them."


	2. The Deemed and the Damned

_The Deemed and the Damned_

The Doctor stood in stunned silence. "What did you say?"

Jones repeated himself. "These Daleks, which is what they call themselves, butchered my whole planet. I'm here to return the favor."

"But how do you know they're here? I haven't seen any trace of them."

"My ship has picked up bare traces of their technology, some of their influences, too. Why else do you think this city we were in is so far advanced past the rest of the planet? The Daleks. _This _ is their base."

The Doctor was stunned. According to the TARDIS—and his personal recollections—this era was supposed to be Dalek-free. They weren't due to manifest themselves again for at least six hundred years, as the Doctor remembered. But here they were, if Jones were telling the truth.

"There's one way to find out if you're lying," the Doctor said, flipping some switches on the TARDIS console, twirling some dials, throwing some levers, and kicking a few panels for good measure.

Unfortunately for the Doctor, Jones had been telling the truth. There was some slight hint of the Daleks' influence. Traces of Dalekanium, even bits of Dalek DNA, which caused the Doctor no small amount of concern. "This might be one of the cradles they came from a few centuries from now," he murmured, unable to take his eyes away from the displays.

"What did you say?" Jones asked, peering at the Doctor.

"Just…nothing. Nothing."

"No, you used the past tense to refer to the future. What's going on with you, Doctor?"

"Well, in fairness to your having supplied some answers, I'm a Time Lord, with all that that implies. I've met the Daleks before and beaten them before."

Jones held his peace and waited for the Doctor to continue. When nothing further was forthcoming, Jones prodded the Doctor. "So now that you know they're here, you'll help me, right? You know what they're capable of doing, and they're doing it here. Help me."

"No," the Doctor said curtly. "At least not in the way you want me to. I'm going to find out what's happening, yes, but then I, _and only I_, will decide what to do."

"Oh, you think so?"

"I know perfectly well so, Mister Jones, and you will not be bringing that gun of yours along."

Jones snorted. "You notice that the Daleks bring theirs along."

"They're bred and programmed to kill. You choose to kill. There's a difference." A high-pitched warbling buzz filled the air. "And if you don't mind—and even if you do—I've taken that choice from you."

Jones looked down to see the sonic screwdriver being slipped back into the Doctor's pocket. "Damn it, that's twice! What did you do?"

The Doctor smiled. "See this smile? It's my most disarming feature, aside from my sonic screwdriver. Either way, they work." He flipped the screwdriver around in his hand and slipped it into a pocket in his coat.

"You are not going to stop me from killing the Daleks!" Jones snarled.

"Yes, I am," the Doctor said. "And to make sure of that, you're going to accompany me wherever I go so I can keep an eye or two on you."

Jones glowered at the Doctor a bit longer, then relaxed. "Okay. I can work with that."

The Doctor narrowed his own eyes. Jones was obviously up to something, but the Doctor doubted that Jones could try anything that the Time Lord hadn't already seen a dozen times or more. The Doctor flipped a switch and the TARDIS stopped.

"All right then, Mr. Jones," the Doctor said, gesturing at the door, "kindly deposit your gun on the floor and let's be off."

Without a word, Jones dropped the now-useless weapon near the central console and preceded the Doctor outside the TARDIS. He still managed to settle his wide-brimmed hat in a stylishly commanding way over his theatrically-steeled eyes, the Doctor noticed. _How irritating._

Locking the TARDIS and pocketing the key, the Doctor took stock of where they were. They had rematerialized within a quarter-mile of the city, but fortunately the gigantic building that formed the Deemed headquarters was easily visible. "Should be easy enough to get there," the Doctor commented idly.

"Maybe to reach, but to enter? Different story," Jones replied, setting out at an easy stride.

"Different, but not impossible," the Doctor said, keeping pace with his antagonistic ally. "So how did you arrive at the conclusion that I was working with the Daleks?"

"You entered the hub of the city's activity, obviously the Daleks' center of operations, and weren't captured, killed, or otherwise inconvenienced," Jones said. "That, plus I saw some of the papers that detailed the activities going on here. Slave manifests, quantities ordered and shipped, stuff like that."

The Doctor spared Jones a slight glance. "Well, at least it sounds like you have a healthy distaste for slavery. One redeeming feature."

"I have plenty of 'redeeming features,' Doctor," Jones said tightly. "They're kind of hard to see when you're looking down on me from a high horse."

The Doctor let that one slide. "Well, for all that, you seem to be a bright young man. Where did you come up with all those tricks you have, like how you hid your plasma gun?"

"Bits and pieces of technology, some of it from home, some I bought, traded for, or scavenged," Jones said indifferently. "Fortune favors the prepared, and I like to be prepared as much as I can."

"Makes sense. What kind of ship do you have?"  
>"Why?"<p>

"Just wondering," the Doctor said with a small shrug.

Jones looked at him sideways. "I'm not telling you any more about myself than I have to, Doctor. We seem to be at odds with each other about some things, you know."

_Fair enough._ "All right, then," the Doctor said. "How long have you been here? Long enough to learn to read the language, anyway."

Jones smiled. "No, that would be a bit of technology I found. If you look at my eyes, you can see I'm wearing a form of contact lens. They're not just visual aids, but they scan, photograph, store, and translate any text or images I see. That's one of the ways I get around, learn things without being obvious."

"Clever," the Doctor said without a trace of bitterness. "Well, what about any tricks concerning getting into places where you're not wanted?"

"I have a couple," Jones hedged. "But I'd put better money on your sonic screwdriver. That's a pretty handy little toy."

The Doctor shrugged. "It has its uses. But since you don't want to share secrets about your tools or techniques, how about at least answering a few questions about what led you here? What did your sensors show you that made you think the Daleks were here?"

"I already told you. Bits and pieces of this and that, random readings that added up to a good possibility they were on this planet."

"Oh, and related to the technology bit, you said you had been at this a few 'subjective' years," the Doctor said. "What did you mean by that?"

"Well, while my planet had developed faster-than-light travel, we can't quite overcome that Kelenorian time dilation factor," Jones replied. "You know, closer to light, slower in time…past light, _pfft. _All bets off."

The Doctor nodded. He knew: he had helped a young patent clerk figure that one out. All it had taken was a reminder to carry the '2' in his initial calculations. "So how many years real-time?"

"About ninety, give or take," Jones answered. "I don't have anything to set my watch against when I come out of FTL so I have to guess using my ship to calculate spatial drift. Not very accurate at that sort of thing, but it's all I have."

Nibbling on the inside of his lip, the Doctor found an answer to at least one of his questions. He had been right: the Daleks weren't due to appear yet. They were still rebuilding their empire and hadn't launched their offensives yet. About six hundred years from now and about fifty or so years in the past…the Doctor relaxed. History wasn't being tampered with here, it was simply being experienced. However, it also meant that he just might stumble into, if not a Dalek empire, at least a Dalek nation. It also meant he would have to think fast and on the fly if things went wrong.

It wasn't as if that had never happened before.

"Well then, how about you?" the Doctor pressed. "Why do you dress so…dramatically? And what's with the speech mannerisms, the body language? William Shakespeare's failed understudy, forced to complete his lessons under Clint Eastwood?"

"Who?"

"Never mind. What's the story with your costume and your behavior?"

It was Jones' turn to shrug. "Well, the coat is pretty much utilitarian. Plenty of pockets to store gear in, durable fabric that stands up to nearly any kind of abuse, and a Tralamirian cooling system, thank you very much. Keeps me cool at temperatures up to one hundred thirty degrees, warm up to fifty below."

"Fahrenheit or Celsius?"

"Drapanuy scale."

The Doctor did some quick calculations. "Not bad," he said diplomatically. Jones' coat was good for approximately room temperature on Earth, but if it kept him happy, the Doctor was all for it.

Jones said nothing more, prompting the Doctor to press harder. "The hat?"

"Keeps rain off my face, the sun out of my eyes, impresses the people I'm there to save. Typical hat stuff."

"You actually list 'impressing people' as one of the criteria for choosing a wardrobe?"

"And why not?"

"Look at yourself! You look like a secondhand store was violently ill all over you."

Jones shot him a glance. "Keep talking, sneaker-boy. What, color vision got bred out of the gene pool where you're from? You can't even keep them tied."

The Doctor lifted up one of his high-topped trainers. "Yes, I can!"

"But I still made you look. So much for infallibility."

"Oh, very clever," the Time Lord sneered.

Again Jones shrugged.

"Do you honestly feel compelled to impress people?"

"To an extent," Jones answered simply. "Some people don't take kindly to giving in to my authority, even in an emergency—"

"How inconsiderate," the Doctor said drily.

"—so I feel it necessary to cut a slightly more dramatic figure, something more imposing to nudge them in the right direction."

"Well, try not to nudge on me too much, will you? I just had this suit pressed."

"Well, not to nudge, but it's time for you to whip out your sonic somesuch and work your magic," Jones said.

The headquarters of the Deemed loomed large ahead, and the duo slipped down a minor alleyway to try a less conspicuous approach than the front door. A narrow window, set near the ground and cracked partway open for ventilation, provided their most likely opportunity. The Doctor set his screwdriver to scan for life signs, found none, then examined the window.

"Can you use it to remove the screws or hinges so we can—…oh." Jones' question was stifled by the Doctor simply reaching inside the window and releasing the latch to open it fully.

With a final look about, both men slipped inside the building, the Doctor taking care to replace the window as it had been found. "Now," he said, straightening his coat and tie, "this way looks good."

"Why not this way?" Jones asked, pointing down another hallway.

"Because it doesn't look as good."

"What defines 'looks good' to a Time Lord?"

The Doctor opened his mouth, closed it again. "Whatever this corridor has that the other doesn't. That defines it, I think."

Scowling from under the brim of his hat, Jones clamped his mouth shut and resolutely followed the Doctor. He shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his drover coat as though something were bothering him, and given that the Doctor had taken away his toys, that might have been it exactly.

Not that the Doctor cared. Jones had been disarmed and was substantially more harmless than he had been, and that was sufficient for the Doctor. "Ah, a lift. Handy inventions, these."

"What?" Jones hadn't been paying attention and had nearly run the Doctor over in the midst of his ruminations.

"A lift. An 'elevator.' A bi-directional transition cell. A magic boxy thing that magically moves you up and down as if by magic."

This time, Jones said nothing, but the Doctor could tell that he had pushed a few buttons too many times. "Oh, stop it, Jonesy," the Doctor said. "That was just teasing. From ground level, not from my high horse. Now get rid of that grumpy frown and get inside."

He did so, standing slightly behind the Doctor as the Time Lord operated the elevator's controls. The Doctor touched a few buttons, then pulled out his sonic screwdriver again.

"Trouble?" Jones asked. "Magic wand not working?"

"Quit being so snippy," the Doctor said. "Just reviewing my readings. According to this, there's Dalek activity about a hundred meters down, but the lift only shows that it goes down four floors, maybe eighteen meters at most. Now that…"

Jones withdrew a device from his pocket and pressed it against the control panel, tapping a few keys in quick order. The elevator lurched and began to descend as he replaced his tool.

"…is handy," the Doctor said. "Of course, my sonic screwdriver could just as easily overridden the controls, you know."

"Yes, but it had to wait for you to shut up and use it first," Jones replied. "Now we're on our way down to the lowest level, so keep your eyes and ears out for Daleks."

"Why the bottom levels?"

"I thought you knew Daleks," Jones said. "They always place their areas of highest activity at the bottom of any excavation or at the top of any construction. It's either to afford maximum protection or achieve the greatest psychological or physical effect, depending on what their pet project is at the time."

The Doctor eyed Jones. "Of course I knew that."

"So what was the problem?"

"I'd much rather not have to appear dead center in a swarm of Daleks, thank you very much."

"Okay," Jones said. "I'll just set the elevator to arrive so that we can fight out way through hundreds of thousands of many, many more Daleks before we reach our objective. That make you happy?"

"In case you didn't notice, this elevator is going to arrive at the heart of the Dalek project, whatever it is," the Doctor snapped. Something about Jones just kept rubbing him the wrong way.

Jones turned to face the Doctor. "In case _you_ haven't noticed, nobody knows we're here, and nobody knows that anyone on this planet can override their security. Even if the Daleks feared you…"

"Oh, they do."

"…they don't know that the dreaded Doctor has arrived to engulf the Daleks with his righteous crankiness," Jones finished. "They'll see that the elevator's on its way down and assume it's just more of the Deemed or their slave laborers."

"Oh, please," the Doctor said. "When you've fought the Daleks as long as I have…"

The door slid open to reveal a darkened corridor. Jones said nothing, but the Doctor had a sudden urge to wipe the "I-told-you-so" grin off the man's face.

"Go ahead and finish the sentence, Doctor," Jones said. " 'Sometimes you get lucky,' right?"

"Luck is all that this is," the Doctor said, edging out into the corridor. "Mister Jones, the lives of everyone on this planet and on countless others may well depend on what we do here. Rashness is something we can _not _afford, and since I have the edge in experience, I would greatly appreciate it if you would get out of my way and stop being such a nuisance."

"You're the one that wanted me to come along so you could keep watch over me, remember?"

"And now I'm the one that wants you to shut up and tag along. Don't do anything unless and until I tell you." The Doctor froze at the sound of voices in the distance.

Both men, Jones without a comment for once, melted into the shadows. Two of the hunchbacked Deemed were striding slowly along the corridor, murmuring to each other.

The Doctor looked at Jones, then to the Deemed. His intent was obvious: follow the Deemed. Jones nodded, a bit too melodramatically, and fell into silent step behind the Doctor.

Jones kept turning his head to check for pursuit or random passersby who just might pop out and chance upon them. It was why he nearly stepped on the Doctor's ankle.

Angrily, the Doctor _shushed_ Jones and motioned for him to keep still. Glowering, Jones settled back and watched as the two Deemed disappeared around a far corner. Once the Doctor was satisfied that there were no cameras or other monitoring devices—including those nasty biomechanical fungoid optic parasites that the Piktothruni used (_Yeccch,_ the Doctor shivered)—he stepped into the corridor and took another reading with his sonic screwdriver.

Jones nudged him. "What did I tell you about that?" the Doctor whispered. "No nudging."

Jones nudged harder, this time reaching in front of the Doctor to point. "What is it?" the Doctor asked.

"That door," Jones whispered back. "It says 'incubation tanks.' That deserves investigation, I think."

The Doctor had to admit that Jones was right. "Handy things, those contacts."

Rather than risk the sonic screwdriver's audible whining, the Doctor reached out and gently touched the door on the off chance that it would be open. It was. Quickly and quietly stepping inside, the pair made sure the door was secured behind them before they began inspecting the room.

They quickly wished they had bypassed the chamber.

Enormous acrylic cylinders lined the far wall and formed several rows about seven feet apart. Each cylinder bubbled with an opaque, viscous fluid. Immersed in the fluid, each cylinder held a human, an even mix of males and females of different ages.

On each human's back, between its shoulders, nestled a Dalek embryo: these, then, were the Deemed.

For once, neither man had anything to say. The spectacle before them would have robbed most of their consciousness and others of their sanity, so neither could be begrudged these few moments of speechless horror.

The liquid in which each person floated was cloudy, most likely hyper-oxygenated and nutrient-laden, as respiration continued even without breathing apparatuses. There were faint twitches from the humans as though dreaming—or nightmaring, as the Doctor supposed—and the embryos on their backs spasmed in response. Peering closer, barely suppressing their impulses to either vomit or flee, the Doctor noticed that there was a strange mass of scar-like tissue between each embryo and its host.

"I've seen this before," the Doctor whispered, both in horror and out of fear of being heard. "The Daleks are using human hosts to nourish and provide for newly spawned Daleks. That tissue between them acts as a placenta, filtering nutrients and wastes and preventing each entity's antibodies from attacking the other."

"Entity?" Jones hissed. "Those are humans in there, Doctor! Human beings being parasitized by Daleks! Humans being sentenced to worse than death, and you call them just 'entities?'"

"Mister Jones, I am perfectly aware of the atrocities being committed here," the Doctor hissed back. "But for your edification—that means enlightenment and education all rolled up in one—the Daleks are as much a victim here as the humans they're attached to."

Jones' eyes lit up in anger. "How can a Dalek be a victim? They prey on everyone and everything else, just like they're doing here. This is all their doing, their planning. They're not the victims!"

"Yes they are," the Doctor corrected. "Daleks are born programmed. They do not have the chance or the choice to develop morals or ethics as we understand them. They know only to exterminate and subjugate. Their DNA and synapses are overwritten to take those choices from them."

"That's their problem! So previous generations make copies of themselves and send them out to murder. That doesn't absolve the current generation of their sins! It's the same as that tired old excuse of 'just following orders.' They are thinking, intelligent creatures. They may be programmed to kill, but they're smart enough to see, to hear, and to learn. That makes them smart enough to choose a different path, but since they don't, they're as guilty as their ancestors and they'll get the same punishment as the rest of their kind!"

The Doctor came around one of the tanks to stand face to face with Jones. "I have seen this before and I know what is going on. Daleks have tried to reprogram humans with Dalek DNA before. Daleks have even developed senses of right and wrong before. Some have even become forces for good, but they have to be given the chance first."

"What about the humans who never get that chance?" Jones angrily indicated the tanks of hybrids. "Or who have it taken away from them? What about them? Are your precious Daleks so pitiful, so misunderstood that their fate matters more than ours? Or hers?"

The Doctor saw where Jones was pointing. A young girl of about ten floated in a tank several feet away, a pulsing Dalek nestled between her shoulder blades. He could see that she still breathed in the oxygenated fluid, much as an infant breathed in its mother's womb. He saw her black hair floating gently in the currents of the tank, her delicate hands twitching gently in the grips of some dream or other, and her partly-open mouth occasionally tried to form words as she spoke in her sleep. He wondered what color her eyes were.

"What you don't understand," the Doctor whispered, looking up into the girl's face, "is that all life is precious. All life forms deserve the chance to determine their own fates, to walk their own paths. Even the Daleks. If given the chance, it's entirely possible that the Daleks could choose peace and coexistence over murder and conquest. They deserve the opportunity to make that choice."

"But the Daleks I'm hunting have made their choices," Jones snarled. "They've elected to kill, and that's what I'm here to stop!"

The Doctor shook his head and closed his eyes in exasperation. When he opened them, he saw that Jones had withdrawn a large energy pistol and a pouch of what seemed to be explosives. "Where…how did you get those in here?"

"What, you think that cloaking pod idea wasn't good enough to use again? Don't reach for that screwdriver," Jones said, aiming his pistol at the Doctor. Without taking his eyes off the Doctor, Jones began placing small packages of explosive compounds at the bases of the tanks, on control panels and power junctions, and anywhere else that looked vital.

"I detest guns," the Doctor said tersely.

Jones snorted. "Hate guns, love Daleks. Despise the tool, adore the murderer. Curious mindset, Doctor. And utterly irrelevant."

"So now you'll be killing fellow humans just to kill Daleks. You pathetic, murdering fool. I don't suppose it would do you any good to point out how much like the Daleks you've become."

"In light of the fact that I haven't become like the Daleks, not much good at all," Jones said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a transmitter. "Unlike you, I realize that those humans in the tanks, and the rest of the Deemed wandering about town, are already dead. The Daleks will detach themselves from their hosts when they're ready to be transferred to their combat chassis and that will kill the host, very painfully and very thoroughly. I've seen it, too. Consider it euthanasia."

"Another practice I abhor."

Working by touch, Jones flipped a few switches on the transmitter and small lights on each miniature bomb lit up. "I wonder about you, Doctor," Jones mused. "As long as the sanctity of Dalek life is maintained, you're happy. Humans? Who cares?"

"That's not true," the Doctor snapped. "I told you _all_ life is precious!"

"Then why in the name of hell are you fighting so hard for the Daleks?"

"I'm fighting for all of them, humans and Daleks alike! I'm trying to keep you from killing everyone here!"

Jones' finger nearly pressed the detonator switch in his anger. "You make excuse after excuse for the Daleks but do nothing but condemn and ridicule me. They commit murder, I defend my people and worlds the Daleks may destroy, and they're the 'victims?' I'm the killer?"

Any pretense at stealth had been forgotten in their anger. Their voices had risen steadily and sharply, and any retort the Doctor may have had ready was stilled when the door to the incubation room flew open. Six Deemed, heavily armed, ran in to surround the duo. Nassim, the First Director the Doctor had met earlier, was peering at the two intruders over the barrel of a large-bore weapon. Detestable or not, the gun made a most effective deterrent, the Doctor had to admit.

"Disarm those explosives," Nassim ordered. "The Prime knows you have no intention of detonating them while you are in proximity to them."

"Your 'Prime' knows nothing," Jones scoffed, covering the button with his thumb. "If it means destroying you and your Dalek masters, I've got no problem pressing this button a hundred times over."

"The small amount of explosives will not destroy the Dalek presence on Homeworld. It will, however, kill you, and the Prime knows your type. You are too obsessed with vengeance to throw your own life away. You treasure retribution over heroics, revenge over sacrifice. You may press your switches now, but the Daleks will continue after your death, and you would not risk that. It is more precious to you that you continue your quest rather than make a poignant and empty gesture of defiance." Nassim's gun never wavered. "Disarm the explosives. Now."

The Doctor could see Jones' face working. He was actually toying with the idea of setting off the bombs just to get under Nassim's and the Prime's skins, but in the end, Nassim had spoken the truth: Jones disarmed the bombs and surrendered the detonator and his weapon.

"Follow."

Nassim turned and led the way out of the incubation chamber. The remaining five Deemed followed the Doctor and Jones as they left, their hands held atop their heads.

"I hope you're happy, Doctor," Jones hissed.

"Not really, but in a substantially better mood than I would have been had you set off those bombs."

"Just remember. If they kill us, it's your fault."

"How is it my fault?"

"I could have stopped them but you…"

"…did nothing but argue, if you'll recall," the Doctor reminded him. "You were holding the weapons. I was standing there doing just like you told me, being a good little Time Lord and all."

"It's still your fault."

Nassim paused long enough to open a door, then gestured for Jones and the Doctor to enter. The room within was fairly dark, lit only by display panels and infrequent light bulbs, but there was enough light to see without stubbing more than one or two toes.

"So," the Doctor said cheerily, hands still on his head, "is this the Prime's flat? Little gloomy, isn't it? Maybe some fresh paint, a throw pillow…"

"The Doctor continues to display a penchant for irrelevant and disjointed banter," a mechanical and grating voice said, each syllable punctuated by the flashing of two lights atop a dome standing nearly two meters off the floor.

The Doctor drew up sharply, his eyes wide and focused intently on the speaker. It was a Dalek, of course, but the voice…most Daleks had the generic "one shriek fits all" voice, but this one was different, deeper and some how more emotional. And familiar.

"You are the Prime?" Jones asked; the Doctor was speechless as he tried to figure out how this had come to pass.

Feeble lights flickered on and the Doctor nearly recoiled. The Prime, the Dalek in command of this hybridizing experiment and all the technological advancement on this planet was the sole survivor of the Cult of Skaro.

Dalek Caan, festooned with wires and cables and missing some of the Dalekanium plates off his chassis, scanned the Doctor and Jones with his optic sensor.

"I am the Prime," Caan intoned. "I am the Source. And you are to be exterminated."


	3. Retribution Deferred

Retribution Deferred

"I was about to say something along those lines," Jones said dryly. His hands began edging toward the inside of his coat, slowly, so slowly.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait," the Doctor said, loudly, ever so loudly. "Always with the extermination, you two. Always with the bang-bang and zap-zap-kaboom. Would you both just please give it a rest?"

"Your extermination will be delayed only long enough for you to explain how you discovered us," Caan said.

The Doctor pursed his lips and scowled in thought. "So if I say, 'by accident' or something like that, you'll kill us right away and I won't have gained all that much, will I?"

"No," Caan agreed.

"Then let me get back to you on that," the Doctor said. "Shouldn't take too long to think up a suitably long explanation. Not too long at all."

"Do you expect me to believe that the appearance of the Doctor, the Oncoming Storm, is a coincidence?" Caan asked, his modulated voice still managing to convey a sense of incredulity.

"That hinges entirely on what we were discussing, you know, the whole 'execution' thing…"

Caan's optic sensor swiveled to face Jones. "You are the Doctor's companion. Identify."

"I'm Shinigami Jones, and you shouldn't have to ask who I am."

The Dalek sat motionless for a moment, either calculating Jones' identity or simply pondering whether or not to blast him out of existence. Finally, Caan's dome twitched almost imperceptibly. "Your identity is unknown. You are a non-entity of negligible threat level."

Jones bristled. "You think so? I've spent the last twelve years of my life hunting down and destroying Daleks—and the total is up to seventeen thousand and change, thank you—and I'm negligible?"

"That is correct," Caan said. "Approximately 1,416 Daleks per year, regardless of your methods of temporal calculation, is statistically insignificant when measured against the total might of the Dalek Empire."

"Thought you said you'd lost track," the Doctor whispered.

Jones nudged him angrily. "Insignificant when you figure in the fact that I've achieved this all on my own?"

"Even without the masses you said you had to try to impress?" the Doctor asked _sotto voce_.

"Would you mind?" Jones snapped.

"Escort these two to holding areas," Caan commanded, evidently tired of the banter. "Initiate a city-wide search for the Doctor's TARDIS. Inform me when it is found and we will take possession of it."

As they were guided out of the room, the Doctor looked over his shoulder. "Not that I'm being pushy or anything, but what about that whole 'execution' business…?"

"It is unwise to discard potentially useful material," Caan replied. "When it is determined that you have no further use, you will be exterminated. However, given your extreme threat level, you will be closely monitored during your detention. If you offer any resistance, you will be exterminated and relevant data will be extracted from your remains."

"Makes you wonder why they don't just do that now," Jones mumbled to himself on the way out the door.

"Because the quality of data retrieved degrades significantly when taken from dead tissues," Caan continued, even as the prisoners were guided down the hall. "Living organisms can, with appropriate stimuli, impart timely and relevant information in a far more satisfactory manner."

"Just keeps talking, doesn't he?" Jones noted softly.

The Doctor kept his silence with great difficulty, but as soon as they were put inside the holding cell, he rounded on Jones. "What was that all about, 'why don't they do that now?' What were you thinking?"

"I was doing what I always do," Jones snapped back. "Daleks can't handle randomness or unpredictability. They go into momentary feedback loops while they try to figure out what to do. That's what I was doing to that Dalek in there."

"Well, it won't work," the Doctor said. "That's Dalek Caan, the last member of the Cult of Skaro. He's not like other Daleks. He can think for himself. Independent and creative, like one of us. And by 'one of us' I mean 'me,' in case you were wondering."

Jones smirked. "A judgmental and arrogant Dalek. Who'd have thought?"

"Anyone but you, since thinking appears to be one of your weak points. Even if Caan had been a regular Dalek, he probably would have been goaded into killing us then and there because of that."

"More likely, he'd have contacted a superior for confirmation," Jones countered. "Daleks can't work worth a damn on their own. They're like ants. A single Dalek is susceptible to confusion and misdirection, and what I was trying to do, despite your interference, was confuse that one long enough to escape. Since he's obviously controlling things around here, his indecision would have rippled downward into his command net and affected his minions."

"He doesn't have any superiors, and you're assuming that he's in direct control of the Deemed," the Doctor said. "There's no evidence that he is."

"Aside from them magically appearing whenever he calls them."

"What, they don't have cell phones or radios on your planet?"

"Have you seen the Deemed using communication devices?"

"No, but my sonic screwdriver, the same thing I've been using to scan for technological traces, tells me that inside every Deemed's robe is a walkie-talkie of sorts. Didn't your ship's sensors tell you that?"

"I haven't had a reason to use them for that," Jones said.

"Oh, that's just brilliant. You have sensors and don't sense things?"

"Let me finish! I haven't used them since about four years ago. I was on Delmaris XI and I discovered that Daleks, at least those Daleks, are telepathic as well. Since then, I never bothered scanning for communications equipment and just assumed that one way or the other, Daleks can talk amongst themselves regardless of the medium."

The Doctor snapped his mouth shut. _Telepathic_ Daleks? He pondered that. He had personally never seen such creatures, but given Dalek genetic engineering and evolution, it was certainly possible, and a definite threat worth investigating and stopping. But still… "That doesn't justify your argument that Caan is directly controlling the Deemed, either with telepathy or mechanical means."

"Yes, it does. They're subordinate to him and don't act without his orders, either preplanned or spontaneous. It's highly unlikely that he had instructions in place to deal with us if we showed up, and the Deemed would be indecisive and hesitant if we interfered with their command net."

Now the Doctor shook his head. "That presupposes that _we specifically_ were anticipated. Wouldn't it be more logical to assume that Caan has measures in place to deal with saboteurs or the like regardless of their identities?"

Jones threw his hands in the air. "Not with the entire city, if not planet, subjugated! It's as logical as assuming that some supercilious alien would force himself into my line of work and that I'd somehow be magically prepared for it."

"Fortune does favor the prepared."

"Which explains why you're in here."

"Exactly," the Doctor said. "I'm in here, not in front of a firing squad or in a torture device."

"So you planned to get thrown in a cell," Jones said, the sarcasm puddling about his boots.

"If the alternative were death, yes. Called a 'contingency plan,' you see. Ever hear of it?"

"Got a few myself."

"Planning on using them?"

"Yes." Jones crossed his arms and looked at the Doctor.

The Doctor likewise crossed his arms and returned Jones' look. As Jones returned the Doctor's look.

As looks ricocheted between them, the Time Lord's patience ran out first. Call it a sense of urgency or Jones' innate ability to irritate him, the Doctor drew his sonic screwdriver and went to the door. The tip glowed blue as the Doctor slowly moved the screwdriver up and down along the doorjamb.

"Something wrong?" Jones asked.

Biting his lip, the Doctor replied, "Yes, in fact. Loath as I am to admit it. To you, anyway. It seems the door has just a bit of an odd refractory metal incorporated in it. Makes it so the screwdriver can't get a good grip on the latch."

"Whip out the contingency plan, then," Jones offered helpfully.

With a scathing sidewise look at his antagonist, the Doctor moved over to the opposite jamb and took a quick look. In short order, he had aimed and deployed his screwdriver six times, two seconds each time. He stuffed the screwdriver back in his pocket and aimed a lopsided yet victorious grin at Jones.

"And you just did what, exactly?"

The Doctor gave a gentle shove and the door yawed outward slightly. "Just enough of a gap between the door and the jamb that I could undo the hinges. It's only held on now by the latch and deadbolt. Contingency!"

Cautiously, fearful of any noise, the Doctor pushed the door open and tried his best to keep it from falling. Once he was sure the coast was clear, he and Jones crept into the hall and pushed the door back in place.

"Workable," Jones admitted.

"At least I got us out," the Doctor countered. "What was your contingency plan?"

With his own lopsided victory grin, Jones said, "Getting you to open the door for me."

"You didn't have a plan at all," the Doctor accused.

"Did. And it worked. Stop Daleks now?"

The Doctor held his tongue and began to tread softly down the hall the same way he'd come. Jones held back long enough to adjust his coat and shrug even deeper into it before he followed, but follow he did, for once keeping his comments to himself. There would be precious little amusement to be had in the moments ahead.

-oOo-

For reasons known only to Fate—_or to Dalek Caan_, the Doctor corrected himself—there were no Deemed in the corridor. That gave the Doctor pause.

_Caan knows I'm here, knows I have my sonic screwdriver, and all he does is lock me in an unguarded storage room? What is he up to? I thought I was to be 'closely monitored.'_

"Funny how the 'Oncoming Storm' only rates a broom closet," Jones said quietly. "Guess you don't rate that high, after all."

_Ah, that settles it. He truly is the manifestation of all I hold most negative and pessimistic about myself._ "I was thinking something similar. Maybe you have ideas. Most likely not, in which case why not go think of some? Not that listening to them is any great thrill, but it will keep you occupied and out of my way for a bit."

"No real ideas," Jones said, "just the main objective. Kill the Daleks."

"You and your one-track mind."

"Several tracks," Jones corrected. "Just all headed to the same destination."

Ignoring his companion for the moment, the Doctor consulted his screwdriver. He needed another path back to the incubation chamber and the screwdriver's scanning functions would provide exactly that if…ah. _There we go._

"You know they're watching us," Jones murmured, looking in every direction at once, looking for all the world like a paranoid chicken on a caffeine overdose.

"Yes."

"Got any plans?"

"Yes."

"What are they?"

"Yes."

Jones frowned. "What?"

The Doctor looked up in a reasonable facsimile of feigned surprise. "Oh, so sorry. That was _you_ talking? Just watch our backs; I have this under control."

Without incident—which made the Doctor even more apprehensive—they managed to reach the incubation chambers. The lights had dimmed, most likely to conserve power since the hybrids didn't need to sleep. There was enough of a soft blue glow from the tubes that the Doctor could still see.

"Look for a computer terminal," the Doctor said. "I need to find the logs so I can find out how and where to start reversing the process. Separate the Daleks from the humans if the process hasn't been going on too long. And no more bombs!"

Jones made his way to the far end of the chamber, dutifully looking for a terminal of some kind. The Doctor kept panning his screwdriver back and forth, up and down, looking for any kind of interface that he could access manually, with the screwdriver, or via the TARDIS' systems. The screwdriver flashed briefly, indicating an anomalous power surge…

"I knew you would return to this chamber," Caan intoned slowly. "And you did so within the expected time frame. My projections and estimates were accurate."

The Doctor heard Jones' hissed intake of breath, but the Time Lord's eyes were fixed solely on Caan's eyestalk. "You have to stop this, Caan. Let these people go."

"I cannot. This is the only way to ensure the future of the Daleks. Any other method would take too long and place too great a strain on my systems, both biological and mechanical."

"But you're killing these humans," the Doctor argued softly. "You don't need to do that."

Caan's eyestalk twitched. "By my calculations, this period in galactic history boasts a human or human-descended population of well over thirty-two point eight trillion units. The numbers I am using to repopulate the Dalek race will not affect either their current or their future numbers."

"But individually, they're being affected right here, Caan. I can help you find a better way."

"I know. That is why you were permitted to escape and make your way here."

"You knew I'd come back here?"

"Not precisely. I had calculated so. I had…hoped, if that is the term." Caan seemed almost wistful, but only for a moment. The Doctor attributed it to his own wishful thinking; Caan would never be remorseful over the deaths of humans. _But what is his game, then? His open use of such an abstract, human term as 'hope'…he's up to something._

"Why, Caan? What were you hoping for?"

The Dalek scanned the hybrids' tubes. "That you could find a way to more efficiently repopulate the Dalek race."

"Repopulate? But a minute ago you said that the Dalek Empire was so big that nothing Jones could do could touch it."

Caan gave the impression that he nodded. "That is true, but the Empire is waning. My scans have indicated that this iteration of the Empire is populated by inferior specimens. These Daleks have been contaminated by impure DNA and each generation becomes more and more flawed. My creations are more pure, closer in execution and intent to the original Daleks."

"What's going to happen to the other Daleks, the impure ones?"

"Eventually, they will become unsustainable. Each generation of cloned or replicated tissue becomes more prone to disease or early degeneration. Within decades, less than a century, the Daleks would die out, which is why I ask for your assistance."

"What makes you think I'd do that?"

"Because the Daleks know you, Doctor," Caan answered, returning his electric blue gaze to the Time Lord's face. "You have advocated endlessly for the preservation of other lives; it seemed logical that your thinking would apply to us."

"Good guess," Jones said, "and odds are that's what he came here to do. Sadly, I'm going to have to rain on his little party."

His hearts sinking, the Doctor turned to look at Jones and as sure as daylight, the Dalek hunter had gotten his hands into the cylinders' power supplies and monkeyed with the wires. "Now what are you up to?"

"Rigged a feedback shunt into each cylinder's life support with an extra added bonus: a standing wave inversion into the building's power core. Flip the switch, kaboom. Alternatively, in case you're thinking of killing me, Caan, I release _this _switch and we just get the wave inversion." Jones smiled, cockeyed and cold.

"Now that's just redundant and ridiculous," the Doctor mumbled between clenched teeth. "Why not just rig the wave inversion?"

"I want a quick, clean death for the people stuck in the cylinders," Jones said. "System-wide shock from their support unit is nearly instant. Just slagging the power core would make them suffocate. Not my style."

"Oh," the Doctor said, eyebrows raised as he turned back to Caan. "An ethical murderer. I hate that kind."

"But you'll argue to preserve the Daleks. Just what kind of murderers do you like, again?"

The Time Lord's temper flared again. "I do not condone murder, no matter who's committing it or who the victims are!"

He turned back to Caan. "The Daleks can be redeemed. I know. I've seen it. You have to know it, too. Surely in all your calculations, all your projections, you have to have seen that the Daleks can one day be a force for good. They don't have to subjugate everything."

"Such a scenario has been anticipated," Caan said at length. "It has been disregarded as anomalous and all current iterations of Daleks have been modified to prevent such a flawed product."

"Product," Jones said scornfully. "Even your own kind and you can't think of them as anything but numbers. Property."

"Jones! You are only _slightly_ less helpful than an instantaneously spawning quantum singularity. _Please, _would you just shut up!"

Caan regarded both of them silently, his eyestalk moving from one to the other in silence. It was almost as though he would have had his head cocked to the side as he watched. "Will you assist me, Doctor? Without you, the Dalek race will die."

"No, they won't," the Doctor said. "Daleks exist even now. Ask him. He's been trying for years to kill them."

"Then I am in error in enlisting your aid," Caan said.

"No! No. I can help you. I _want_ to help you. On board the TARDIS, I have samples of technology from worlds and dimensions you've never imagined. Somewhere in that mess, I can find a way for you to repopulate the Dalek race-your wish-and prevent them from killing everyone in this reality. _My_ wish. Everyone wins."

"So you'd supply them with alien technology and boost their empire's ability to procreate and conquer?" Jones exploded. "What makes you think they'd go along with your plan, anyway? They'd just take your 'gifts' and pervert them to their own ends!"

The Doctor spun to snap at Jones again when Caan spoke. "I find myself in accord with the noisy one. It is the Dalek way to conquer, to dominate."

"Why?"

"It is our destiny."

"Who said so?"

"Our creator."

The Doctor stepped toward Caan. "He's dead and gone now. Why be slaves to a dead man's madness?"

"The Daleks are not slaves. We enslave."

"Oh, you're slaves, all right. Just like humans. Thousands of generations marching in lockstep to ideologies whose creators are long since dust, never once thinking for themselves."

"Daleks are superior to humans," Caan said, his voice rising. "Daleks are supreme. Daleks shall survive!" In his agitation, he was slipping into some kind of default mode, speaking and acting like a Dalek of the line rather than as an independent entity

"Then prove yourself superior! Make your own destiny! Join with me. You can still have your empire, but try this: instead of consuming and slaughtering, rule by example, not fear. Be benevolent. Help the worlds you'd otherwise destroy. Make people want to join your cause not out of terror, but out of friendship. Friends won't turn on you. Subjects will always revolt. Sow a garden, not a minefield."

Caan held his silence. For the lives of him, the Doctor had no idea what was going on behind that glowing eyestalk. The Time Lord spoke again, barely whispering. "You know I can travel through time. You know I've seen things you haven't. Believe me. The path you and Davros want the Daleks to follow leads to death, to rape and ruin. Follow that path and the Daleks will join the universe in the fires of Armageddon. You won't even have an empire of ash and rubble to rule, because you will _be_ ash and rubble. If you've predicted that the Daleks can be a force for justice, you surely have to have seen the opposite; it's the Daleks' inevitable fate if they choose to conquer. Trust me, Caan. I've seen it a thousand times over in a thousand different timelines. It's the way the Daleks will always end up unless someone-someone like you-changes their future.

"And you have that chance right now. Will you take it? Will you condemn the future Daleks to destruction? Will you consign your empire to oblivion?"

The Dalek was so still and silent, not even twitching his dome, arms, or eyestalk, that the Doctor almost thought he'd shut down. "I have entertained such thoughts. Visions of grand and glorious conquest, of the Dalek Emperor standing alone atop a pyramid of our enemies' toppled idols. Sontarans, Cybermen, Antudi. All fallen before our might. Yet I also have dreamed of such as you have said, Doctor. The Time War nearly destroyed us. It was only through chance that we were able to secure the Ark and free the survivors from their prison in the Void. Our race was nearly lost. All because of our need for conquest. I begin to wonder, Doctor..."

"Well, wonder no longer, teapot," Jones called out. "Your grand scheme here is finally finished. Thank you, Doctor, for providing a distraction while I worked. See? I _did_ have contingency plans!"

"What have you done?" the Doctor demanded.

Jones shrugged. "Just sabotaged their splicing equipment, wiped their computers clean, and prevented them from ever rebuilding here again."

The Doctor drew his sonic screwdriver and began scanning. Caan turned his dome to look at the human. "You cannot prevent us from rebuilding."

"Can and did," Jones spat. "See this button? I press it like so, and this entire building begins to collapse from the top down. Eventually, this little operation will cave in on itself. No more breeding facility."

"You insufferable idiot!" the Doctor said. "You'll cause the whole town to sink into the hole as the complex breaks down!"

Jones stood and readjusted his coat as he'd been doing, this time drawing another, slightly smaller plasma rifle from under it. The Doctor cursed himself for not suspecting that Jones had hidden another weapon on his person with a cloaking pod, but it was too late to do anything about that now. "Actually, there's a lot of smoke, fire, and suspicious vapor leaking onto the streets about now. Harmless, but frightening. Most of the town will have evacuated, so casualties should be almost exclusively Deemed. And your little friend, here."

Dalek Caan began moving about the area, distant explosions growing closer, and his manipulator arm tried to access computers and activate controls. "You have disabled this entire level. The computers do not respond."

"I said that," Jones said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm leaving."

"You are trapped in here with the Doctor, with these humans you would save but have instead killed," Caan said, indicating the hybrids in their tanks. "The elevators do not work. You cannot possibly hope to escape via the stairwells; there is insufficient time."

Jones held up a compact device that sparkled with lights and displays. "Personal transmat. Takes me to my ship. Enjoy your entombment, pepperpot. I hope you rot."

"_Emergency temporal shift!_" Caan's form shimmered, wavered, and blinked out of existence, leaving Jones flabbergasted and the Doctor feeling...something. He wasn't sure what.

"Come on," Jones said. "Unless you want to be stuck down here, too."

The Doctor weighed nonexistent options as the lights began to flicker and fires broke out around the room. Clenching his teeth, he ran to Jones' side as the Dalek hunter activated his transmat. As the beam engulfed them, the Doctor couldn't take his eyes from the hybrid Dalek-humans in their support tanks.

He couldn't say for certain if their limbs were moving because of the explosions or if they were trying to get out of their glass prisons before they were buried alive.

-oOo-

Safely aboard Jones' spacecraft, the duo stood a fair distance apart, eyeing each other angrily. "You just killed everyone in that complex," the Doctor hissed. "Every last one of them."

"You must not have been paying attention, Doctor, but the hybridization process is fatal to the human host. They were already dead. I just hastened the process."

"You killed them."

"Yes! I killed them. I prevented them from dying a painful death by inflicting a less painful death! They don't get to live through the pain of carrying a Dalek on their bodies, feeling their organs and bones sucked dry to feed it, then suffer through the separation. They don't get to bleed out or go into shock when the Dalek frees itself, but you know what? _I get to live with the memory of what I did!_ I've killed humans and aliens in the course of my hunt, both as collateral damage and because they were aiding the Daleks, but that doesn't mean I like it or that I ever get used to it!" He reached into a pocket and pulled out something heavy, an assortment of metal tabs on a thick chain.

"What is that?"

"Each tag is a name," Jones said. "A name of someone I've killed, or if I don't have a name, a date and a location. My computers said there were three hundred forty-two hybrids down there. By the end of the day, my ship will have fashioned three hundred forty-two more tags and they'll either be on this chain or another. I carry them with me just as I carry the memories, and they both get heavier every day, so try not to preach to me, _Doctor._"

"You won't get sympathy from me."

"I wasn't asking for any! Who the hell do you think you are that I even need your sympathy or your forgiveness? Who are you to judge me? I work to prevent the Daleks from killing more innocents. You actually offered to help the Daleks make more Daleks! What kind of morality is that? All life is precious? Even when that life kills other life? That makes you as responsible for their acts as they are!"

"Listen," the Doctor said, trying his best not to raise his voice. "I've seen that the Daleks can fight on the side of the angels. Those Daleks deserve a chance to be born and live and do their good works. But their genesis has to begin somewhere."

"Their genesis is in genocide! My world! The worlds of thousands of races across the galaxy! The Daleks bring murder as a greeting and leave butchery as their legacy. I know your kind, Doctor. You want the universe to live in harmony where everyone holds hands and sings songs, kids have puppies and candy while rainbow unicorns fart stardust and glitter. Real nice image, but _the universe is not like that!_ There is evil out there and it does not stop and it cannot be diverted or distracted or appeased! The universe is filled with as many demons and devils as angels and gods, and if you want the angels to be ascendant, you have to face down the demons where you find them, and you have to face them on their terms! You have to be evil to defeat evil, because that's all they understand!

"By killing those people, I ensured the destruction of the Dalek Empire. You heard Caan! Less than a century and they're all dead. Because I killed over three hundred more people, I save billions more. That's how the universe works, Doctor. It's harsh, it's brutal, and it has no mercy for the soft or the cowardly, and you can't save those who need saving until and unless you decide to be as hard and unforgiving as the evil you're fighting."

The Doctor looked into Jones' eyes and saw what almost appeared to be tears in them. But only for a moment. His hands deep in his pockets, the Doctor fiddled with his screwdriver and pressed the activation controls. Every display in Jones' ship went blank, then relit to a basic screen with a blinking cursor in the upper left corner.

"You're right that evil has to be faced down, Mister Jones," the Doctor said softly. "It must be confronted wherever it is found and it must be excised like a tumor before the infection spreads. But you're wrong about how to fight it. You don't banish the darkness by turning off the lights. You can't defeat the shadows by deepening the night. You must become a light. The deeper the darkness, the brighter you must shine, otherwise you'll find yourself so steeped in shadow that you'll never see your way out again.

"I've just wiped your entire ship's systems," the Doctor said, turning away and heading toward an airlock. "No maps, navigation, weapons, nothing. Obviously there's still power, so you have air conditioning-always nice to have come summertime-and maybe you can charge up your electric shaver. But for the time being, you're stuck here. No more crusades, no more killing, no more Dalek hunting."

"For now," Jones growled. "Just get off my ship and don't cross me again."

Pausing at the open door, the Doctor looked over his shoulder. "For your sake, I'll try not to."

The airlock door slid closed as the Doctor descended the ramp and began walking back toward his TARDIS. Jones shoved the chain of tags into his pocket, then shucked his coat and threw it into a corner.

Stomping over to a locker, he withdrew several cases of optical media, backups for his ship's operating systems and immune to erasure. Plugging the first one into a terminal, he began the long and tedious task of reinstalling his ship's software.

Two days, maybe three if he had trouble synchronizing it all, and he would be back in action. And he would be sure to add the word "Doctor" to his list of targets.


End file.
